for the likes of us
disdaining the laid-on serum
mustered missings, ponding, the scarce antimony, the lowering skies
an habituation, like hoarding briquettes or reusing one-time pads,
As if there were any bona fide aim-points or avenues of access anymore
attired in drear accusations, the arsenal of excuses, housed in this listing imago
another while-you-wait industry, having arrived and installed itself while we were distracted
the way we tried to shore up this face we set to the world, like a threatened seawall
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